


Coffee Shop

by trueamericanenglish (captainalston)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, Pre-A Study in Pink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainalston/pseuds/trueamericanenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While working as a delivery boy, Greg Lestrade makes a stop at his regular coffee shop and gets into a fight that pushes his life in a new direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee Shop

**Author's Note:**

> **New Notes:** My first BBC Sherlock fic, written 2 years ago, between seasons 1 and 2. Centered around MY favorite character, Greg Lestrade.
> 
> **Original Notes:** So this is supposed to be Gregory Lestrade around 30 years old and before he’s met any Holmes brothers. Written for geniusbee so, hopefully you enjoy this. No idea if it’s anything close to what you were looking for, but fingers crossed. Enjoy!

It wasn’t supposed to be a life-changing day. It was supposed to be a regular day at his regular job delivering irregular packages to irregular people. A normal, boring, dull day. Though that’s probably how most life-changing days start.

The office had held its usual clockwork momentum. Greg had picked up his stack of packages and loaded them onto his bike, checking to make sure all was secure. Once satisfied, he donned his helmet, zipped up his leather jacket, and detoured over to his morning coffee shop. He’d worked for the delivery company for nearly ten years to make ends meet month to month, and he’d found the coffee shop three years ago. It had been a daily ritual to visit ever since, stopping by just before his morning deliveries.

Glancing out through his tinted visor, he pulled tight corners and flashed around the buildings lining the streets. Occasionally he obeyed the laws of the road, but more often than not he ignored red lights and peeled back and forth between morning traffic, grinning as he pushed himself a little harder and a little tighter each time.

Finally, he sped through the last back alley and pulled to a stop in front of the shop, creating a parking spot that didn’t really exist unless one owned a motorcycle. The engine hummed and groaned before he cut it off and the bike rolled to a stop. With a little grin, he pulled off his helmet, tucked it into the back container, and jumped off his seat, rubbing his face as the wind ran through his short dark hair.

Every day he stopped by the shop. If there was a morning rush, he would sometimes have to sit and wait, but as soon as the customers slowed down, either Melissa or Robert (depending which day it was) would bring out his thermos full of coffee and he’d be on his way. At the end of the day, he’d drop it off to be refilled the next morning and at the end of each week he’d pay his tab for the weeks’ drinks. Every day like clockwork.

This morning was a rush morning, so he stayed by his bike, leaning against the seat as customers moved in and out of the building. Some people he recognized from other days, some he did not. One in particular stood out, and he snorted at the man quite openly.

Standing ram-rod straight by the front doors, he peered about, eyes skittering back and forth as he fiddled over and over with his black suit jacket. He’d button his jacket up, leave it alone for a moment, then unbutton it and try to appear relaxed only to re-button the jacket once more.

The more the blonde man fiddled, the more ridiculous he looked. Even dressed as a guard or secret service, his anxiety was palpable and undermined any fear or terror his large statue may have given him. And he kept glancing over at Greg who just smirked in response.

He didn’t seem to like that. He glared, trying to frighten Greg off with his stare, to which Greg laughed openly. “Problem?” he shouted.

The guard snorted and moved his gaze, once more sweeping the area. There was always something about a man in a suit that made Greg want to hook him ‘cross the face, though he rarely ever did. Half of London would be sporting a sore jaw if he did.

Going back to ignoring the blonde man, he glanced inside to find the breakfast rush had only grown since he’d been sitting there. Melissa caught his eye and shot him a sympathetic apology, though he only shrugged in response. It wasn’t her fault they brewed good coffee.

Nonetheless he glanced at his watch, chewing on his lower lip for a moment. Which was more important, a timely delivery or morning coffee?

The later won out and he returned to leaning against his bike, re-engaging in his glaring contest with the suited man.

“Problem?” the guard called, voice laced with sarcasm.

“Just waiting,” Greg shrugged, rolling his shoulders. “What’re you doing standing out here, Blondie?”

Blondie snorted at the nickname and ignored the question entirely. “You won’t get any service out here. Go inside and order.”

The delivery boy smirked, voice light, “No, I think I’m good. Though you might want to go inside. You don’t exactly blend in.”

Apparently Blondie appreciated being ordered around about as much as Greg did. He took a few steps forward, nearly towering over the motorcycle as his voice dropped any relaxed tone he may have once had. “Don’t be so cheeky.”

“That’s like trying not to breath,” he shot back, never one to back off of a challenge. He jumped to his own feet, quick to take the step between the two of them, leaving Blondie to take an instinctive step back. “Sounds like a pretty serious request to me, don’t you think?”

Gritting his teeth, Blondie refused to give up any more ground and leaned forward until he and Greg were all but touching. “I really don’t think you know what you’re dealing with, kid. Stop now before you get in over your head.”

If this towering man didn’t already seem as if he would go off at the drop of a hat, Gregory might have pointed out that despite his baby face, he was in fact nearly thirty and more than capable of handling himself. Especially against a man whose hands started up a nervous twitch when Old Missus Appleby passed by a little too close ten minutes ago. They shook a little faster now.

So Greg did what any thirty year-old who had a problem with authority and men in suits did in situations like these: pushed and pushed his luck until the other man swung.

The first punch made a rather solid connection with his jaw, and for a moment a few teeth rattled loose in his brain. Alright, so the man was trained. Trained well, really.

The second was a jab that Greg managed to counter easily before retaliating. He hit the guard hard across the face, and then as he turned his head back up to see and block the next hit, Greg jabbed him in the nose, feeling the cartilage give way. A little blood sprayed his knuckles as he pulled back and the suit doubled-over in pain, clawing and clutching at his nose to stop the bleeding that was already staining his shirt.

Greg couldn’t help a little gloat. “What? Two punches and you’re already down?” He smirked, leaning over the prone figure with a little spark in his eye. “What was that about handling myself?” Forget coffee, a little more brawl was always a better shot of adrenaline.

The guard lunged at him, successfully twisting his hands up in the front of Greg’s leather jacket. He tugged, dragging the delivery boy closer to him as he screwed up his right fist for a hook to the jaw.

Greg responded in kind, twisting the man’s bloody lapels in his left hand and pulling his right fist back.

They’d have both smashed their punches into the other’s jaw if not for the small tutting sound coming from over Blondie’s shoulder.

“Michael, Michael,” the third man hummed stepping out from the coffee shop with an alarming amount of grace in each step, “getting into a street fight on the first day is not a clever idea. Nor is it appreciated.”

Michael’s hands let go and he stepped back, bowing to the man with the umbrella. “Yes, of course. Sorry sir,” he muttered, stepping off the street and back on the sidewalk.

A smooth smile crossed the man’s face and he passed his coffee off to the woman beside him, fingers flying across a phone Greg had never seen. Newest model? She was clearly his assistant, so he must be someone of standing to own a phone not already on the market. And the man himself dressed in a three-piece suit to visit a coffee shop while using an umbrella as a walking stick. Interesting. He couldn’t be much older than twenty-two or twenty-three, so was for show. Rich and flashy about it.

“Take Michael to the car and have it brought around.”

The assistant nodded, and with a slump in his shoulders like a five year-old child, Michael followed behind her. Greg watched him leave with a smug smirk on his face.

“I apologize for my companion. I do hope he hasn’t broken your jaw.”

Greg scoffed. “Hardly a scratch. You outta tell your guard to practice at the gym a little more.”

“Mm, he does rather radiate the position, doesn’t he?”

Following the other’s gaze, Greg blinked after the retreating form of Michael. With his stature, the way he was dressed, the general bulk, the way he shifted about always on his toes—was his job supposed to be a secret? “An idiot could figure out what he does for a living.”

“Indeed.”

How this man with his umbrella could make Greg feel insulted in one word was astounding and also impressive.

“Your name?”

“What?”

The man shifted on his umbrella. “Your name if you please. I would prefer to know who I’m addressing.”

He had no reason to give the man his name, and he should point out that it was polite for one to offer their own name before asking for another’s. “Greg.”

The post man smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well then, Gregory—”

“Greg.” He prided himself on the fact that for one moment he seemed to catch the man off guard. “Gregory’s a name for old men and kids in trouble with their parents. My name’s Greg.”

“Yes, well, Greg then,” he murmured, and Greg was pleased it sounded as uncomfortable on the man’s tongue as his face looked while he said it. “You’re quite observant for a delivery boy.”

Greg did not appreciate the insinuation. “I’m just not an idiot. I see what I see for what it is. That’s all.”

“That’s more observant than some.”

Greg shrugged, refusing to take the compliment easily.

The man smiled as if he enjoyed the rebellion. “You’re wasted as a delivery boy. You should do something with your life and that keen eye of yours.”

“I rather like being a delivery boy,” Greg huffed, folding his arms and ignoring the throbbing in his jaw. “Something wrong with that?”

The umbrella tapped against the pavement, as if the man was thinking about the question seriously. “No, I suppose not. Still, such a waste.”

As a black car spun round the corner, he turned and sent a parting smile at Greg. If it was meant to be reassuring, it wasn’t. “Do enjoy your day, Greg.” Still as awkward sounding as before. Greg smirked at the inadvertent accomplishment. “And do think about making something of yourself.”

Usually Greg would have told the man to go fuck off. Any other person and he had. Really, with the umbrella and three-piece suit grating on him, all he could think of was how much the smarmy rubbed him the wrong way. And yet there was a certain honest hope in his voice. Not much, and it sounded condescending at best, but it was there. Some belief Gregory Lestrade could actually do something a little more impressive than deliver a package of perfume across town in thirty minutes.

And so the man and his umbrella disappeared into the car that blended in with the morning traffic within a few moments. He might have thought more about the encounter at the time, maybe even tried following him, or he may have decided to disregard the whole experience in that moment, but Melissa came out with his thermos and Greg shrugged it off. If he still remembered it this evening, he’d reevaluate the conversation when he had time to think.

“Thanks, ‘Lissa.”

“Of course.” Her smile was warm and rosy, just as she somehow managed each morning. “Sorry about the morning rush. You know how it can be.”

Greg did indeed know. “Alright, well I’ll be back this afternoon.”

She nodded and turned to leave when he called out, “’Lissa?”

“Yes?”

“You know the man with the umbrella? The one who just left?” It took her a moment, but she recalled the face of the posh man and his pretty assistant. “What name did he leave? For his coffee I mean.”

“Oh, um,” her finger tapped against her lip for a moment as she wracked her memory. “I believe Michael was the name. Just Michael. He paid with bills, so I didn’t catch a last name. Why?”

Greg shrugged. Of course it was Michael. Now he was beginning to doubt even the guard was really named Michael, but did didn’t matter anyways. “No reason. Alright, I best be off. Cheers!”

Melissa smiled and waved as he drove off. A few years later, once he was safely established in the London police force, he remembered the meeting for what he thought would be the last time. He had made something of himself and he’d continue to make something of himself. There was no reason to remember the smarmy posh man and his morning coffee to motivate himself through any more exams or classes.

It was more than ten years later when he finally saw that same umbrella for the second time.


End file.
